


Neon Lights and Fist Fights

by Kicker



Series: Pre-War Shenanigans [5]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Bar Room Brawl, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Pre-War, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-22 02:10:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11370396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kicker/pseuds/Kicker
Summary: In March 2062 John ‘Charmer’ Roscoe is on R&R in French Guiana. Fourteen days to himself, all by himself, especially when he leaves his travel partners behind and wanders out into the dark backstreets of the city.Vincent ‘Nate’ Hudson, Corporal of the US Army, has had the same idea. Only he’s gone with his squad, and it looks like they’re feeling a bit rowdy.





	Neon Lights and Fist Fights

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheArtOfBlossoming](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheArtOfBlossoming/gifts).



_French Guiana_  
_March 2062_  
  
John drew to a halt and looked up at the shabby neon sign. He didn't really need to narrow his eyes against the brightness of it, dull and old and covered in dust as it was, but he did anyway. Seemed like the right thing to do, at that time of night. _Ouvert_ , it said, anyway. The word still came to him as he'd have said it in class, trying to be a smartarse, trying to piss off his teacher. _ooovurt_ , ugly as anything. If his mother'd have heard she'd have clipped him round the ear, _how dare you treat your grandfather's language that way_ , but that was the thrill of it.  
  
Pointless, really. But they were simpler times, for a simpler version of himself. Before... yeah. Before.  
  
"Sorry mum," he muttered, with a shake of his head. " _Ouvert_."  
  
He pushed open the door and ducked his head under the mantel to enter the bar. It was a dingy little shithole. Barely a dozen tables, all of them with a different combination of mismatched chairs, some of which looked like they'd been dragged out of schools and put into service themselves. Maybe that's why he felt so at home there. Fanciest things in the place were a pair of threadbare armchairs over by the unlit fireplace, always occupied by the same old geezers sat ignoring each other, with beers they never drank and newspapers they never read.  
  
He made his way between those tables and parked himself on a stool, the one that didn't rock on the tiled floor or at least the one that rocked the least. People always gravitate to places like this, he thought, and it never made any sense. No effort in decor. He winced as he sipped his beer. Not much effort in getting quality merch. And as for the clientele, well. The old guys, a group of American lads over in the corner, and a couple of tables of locals staring daggers at each other, and at the Yanks for that matter. Not a single woman except for the one behind the bar, dark eyes and dark hair in a long plait hanging forward over her shoulder, long enough to brush the bar if she weren't careful.  
  
He caught her eye; she nodded her recognition, and reached up for a pint glass without a word.  
  
Yeah, it was a shithole. He'd still been there every night since he found it. Her name was Camille and she had the most beautiful eyes...  
  
Anyhow. At least there was no TV. Some respite from the constant propaganda of the other bars, whether that be the American crap put on for the benefit of their boys on R &R, _remember you're the best in the world, please don't embarrass us_ , or the local messaging of _we know the Americans are bloody annoying but please don't piss them off, they bring a lot of money in_.  
  
One of the American lot sauntered over toward the bar. He leaned heavily on it, over it even, a posture that might have seemed aggressive if that weren't the default setting for most of these Yanks who thought they were big boys just because they'd managed not to die on their first military adventure.  
  
Despite the lean, this one carried himself differently. He was actually pretty casual, shoulders relaxed, none of the puffed-up-chest of the real arseholes. An old-fashioned moustache sunk down either side of his mouth right to his jawline. He looked like he could have been a sheriff on one of these old American TV shows, before the propaganda, like he should have a star on his chest and a horse waiting outside. Even so, his face looked young, far younger than the bloodshot eyes that were set in it. An old man in a young body.  
  
John knew something about that. He knew something about those eyes, too, cos a pair of them had been looking back at him from the mirror for the last eight years. They were eyes that had seen shit they never wanted to see again. Eyes that knew they would anyway. Eyes that maybe didn't care if they didn't open up again the next day cos at least they wouldn't have to see _that_.  
  
After a muttered exchange with Camille four bottles and a shot of something strong got slid across the bar, the latter getting knocked back in a single gulp. The Yank's eyes drifted over to John who saw a flash of something in them, something dangerous maybe, followed by a slight twitch in the not-so-casual-now smile on the maybe not-so-young man's face.  
  
John sniffed, the universal gesture of _you mind your business, I'll mind mine_ , and returned to his own pint.  
  
  
Didn't seem long after that the moustache was back again, a fistful of coins scattering noisily on the bar. Another four bottles of pisswater, and another shot of local moonshine that disappeared faster than the last.  
  
_Oh,_ thought John. _That old chestnut. Feeling generous tonight, lads. My horse came in. I'll get this round. I'll get them all. Just don't watch as I go to the bar._  
  
Whether his mates had noticed or not they were taking their free pisswater with good cheer. At every raucous laugh that went up from the table, a silence fell around the locals. At every raised lilting local phrase the same went on with the Yanks. The usual way of things; probably happening in every bar in town at that very moment.  
  
John took another sip of beer. Though it was a bit early to be getting that rowdy, he didn't reckon there'd be any trouble. Someone'd have to make a right tit of themselves to start anything.  
  
Of course, the moment he even entertained that thought, a furious shouting erupted from behind him, from the locals. But it weren't real trouble. Sure they were loud, but from what he could make out they weren't using the real choice insults, the ones about mothers and tapirs and all of that shit. There were chairs rattled on the floor but they stayed upright. More to the point, the girl behind the bar never even looked up from the magazine she was reading.  
  
See? No trouble at all.  
  
Except for the heavy footsteps approaching from the Yank side of the bar.  
  
Her eyes, sharp and bright as they were, flicked up and followed whoever it was across the room. She kept her chin rested on the one hand but the other stopped its idle leafing of well-thumbed pages, held poised, ready. Still no trouble, but...  
  
"You guys mind keeping it down?" said a voice. Deep, rough, confident like he was used to ordering people around and being obeyed when he did it. Ranked, then. Not too high, wouldn't be slumming it in a place like this if he were. Not your rank and file, anyhow.  
  
"You should know better, mate," muttered John.  
  
A local replied, his voice filled with contempt and his words punctuated by more rattles of that chair on the floor.  
  
John held back the sigh. He didn't imagine the Yank would have understood anything that'd just been said to him, but the intent behind the words was pretty damn obvious even if you didn't know the context of the tapir story. So he swung himself off his stool and wandered as casual as he could toward them, hands stuffed in his pockets.  
  
The Yank was the moustache from before, who by all rights ought to have been passed out under the table by then, oozing moonshine from his pores. He was tall, almost as tall as John himself, just as broad-shouldered and built like a brick shithouse. One on one would be a decent match for himself, but the local was short, skinny and almost certainly had a knife in his boot.

It wasn't a bet John would take easily.  
  
He turned his back on the local, the movement just letting him insert his shoulder between the two of them. Closer in, he could see that around that carefully-shaped moustache was a thick layer of stubble that'd never pass muster on the British side of things. Not least because he'd be the one running that muster.  
  
"Leave it out, yeah?" he said. "Let 'em have their fun."  
  
"Fun?" said the Yank. "I'm not just gonna stand here while they tear the place apart."  
  
"I don't see no tearing going on," replied John. "If this were a real problem, Camille over there'd have her cricket bat out."  
  
The Yank paused, looked over his shoulder. Camille obliged with a subtle wink and a little waggle of her fingers, both a greeting and a wordless _see, no bat here. **Yet**._  
  
John returned his attention to the Yank.  
  
"What's your name, son?" he asked.  
  
"I'm not your son," he snapped back with a deepening frown.  
  
John laughed. "I think I'd know your name if you were. Come on. Humour me."  
  
The kid looked almost like he was about to barge past, knock him out of the way, get stuck into the fight he clearly wanted to start. John set his feet on the floor; not to shoulderblock him, wouldn't do much good if he did what with the size of him. But the Yank turned, looked at Camille again, then rubbed his hand over his face.  
  
"Nate," he said, eventually. "Hudson. Yours?"  
  
And for some reason an old, almost forgotten name came to him, just as clearly as that old mispronunciation of an easy French word. It was a name he'd say with a cheeky smile and a twinkle in his eye, a name other folks'd say with admiration or contempt and you could never quite tell which, not until it was too late.  
  
**Charmer.**  
  
But those days were long gone, and he didn't want any of that hassle any more so he kept his face straight and his eyes averted as he replied. "Roscoe," he said. "John Roscoe."  
  
"No rank?"  
  
"Not for another four days, mate. You?"  
  
A nod, a wry smile. "Ten."  
  
It was an odd position to be stood in, like that; barely a foot apart, tensions high, chatting about holidays like a pair of backstreet barbers. Except, you know. Couple of soldiers of a couple of countries that ain't so far from being enemies.  
  
"Well, Hudson," he said. "Like I say, I've got four days left here. Are you going to get me barred from this fine establishment? Or are we going to cool this down?"  
  
"Whatever, man," said the Yank, holding up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "Far be it from me to ruin your R &R."  
  
He held the man's stare. Seemed too young to be too high in the ranks, but everyone with connections got elevated too soon. Probably half of the reason behind the shit that went on. Making rank was easy, for folks with connections.  
  
All a person like John Roscoe had to do was die.  
  
But, that was a long time ago, and while the Yank was backing away, John was uncomfortably aware of the angry local just behind his left shoulder. He turned back to him. "Américains," he said, with a shrug.  
  
The man replied with a spat-out insult, and some kind of indication of what he planned to do with their mothers though most of the detail was lost on John.  
  
"Laissez-les être," he said, and smiled in the face of whatever insult was thrown back at him. But the man did back down and returned to his mates, albeit shooting sharp glances back over his shoulder. Satisfied that everybody was going to keep their knickers on and not start anything they didn't need to, John settled back down himself. He hadn't made himself any friends, that was for sure, but at least he'd be able to finish his pint.  
  
He had just enough time to get his stool balanced and lift his beer to his lips before the new accord was shattered by the sound of broken glass. Then a silence fell, a dead silence, a deafening silence that just hung around long enough for one word to form in his mind.  
  
_Bollocks._  
  
By the time he turned around, at least half a dozen lads were already in the middle of the room in various fighting configurations. How they'd gotten there so fast he couldn't quite imagine. But the fight seemed to be contained to the area by the doorway, and looked like it might be about to spill out of it. Best to leave 'em to it, really, let a few punches fly. There'd be some sore heads tomorrow morning but that weren't nothing to him, they weren't coming back to his side of town. He turned back to his beer, trying to block out the sounds of battle coming from behind him with thoughts of what he'd do with his next four days.  
  
Then Camille swore and reached under the bar.  
  
_You've gone and done it now, ain't ya_ , he thought.  
  
Glass crunched under his boots as he leapt up, ducking to miss a glass that flew straight at his face from unknown hand. Glancing around at the eight or nine lads now in the fray he made sure there weren't any knives out before heading for the closest pair.  
  
Two kids, barely more than eighteen, matched in size, ineffectually swatting at each other's faces. He had half a mind to show them how to throw a proper punch but instead grabbed their arms and pulled the two of them apart. "Can it," he said. "Arrêtez. The both of you."  
  
For a moment it looked like they were both going to turn on him, eyes bright and angry, drunk on the power of their first 'proper' fight. So he lifted his chin and puffed out his chest, and repeated himself.

"A. Ret. Ez. Vous. Knock it off."  
  
With a quick glance at each other, they scurried into their corners like the rats they were.  
  
A weight crashed into him from the side, catching him unaware. He lifted his hands to catch and steady the guy, who swung around and proceeded to aim a punch right at his face. He deflected it with his own arm so it only caught the side of his head rather than landing a direct hit.  
  
"That's for siding with them," spat the Yank.  
  
"I ain't on nobody's side, mate," replied John, pushing him away.  
  
"Tell that to my fist," roared the Yank, raising it once more.  
  
"Seriously, mate," said John, ducking the blow again. "I'm just trying to have a bloody pint in peace."  
  
But the Yank didn't seem to be having none of it, winding up for yet another punch.  
  
Losing patience, John lamped him one right in the jaw. The man was too drunk or stupid to avoid it so his fist landed with a sickening crack that he wasn't sure was jaw or fist or maybe both. He started to fall back like he'd been knocked right out.  
  
_I'm not that good,_ thought John. _Am I?_  
  
But his opponent caught himself just in time, twisting around to lean forward over his knees, and slapping a hand over his mouth either to make sure his jaw was still attached or to muffle the curses that started to pour out of it.   
  
John stood steady, waiting in case the man decided to go for broke and throw himself at him again. But after a few moments of heavy breathing, he just staggered away to his previous table and the comforting arms of his friends. So John turned away, wincing and rubbing the feeling back into his hand.  
  
Most of the fighters had already dispersed, both sides tending to their bloodied noses and split knuckles. But in the middle of the floor still was a proper man-mountain who'd somehow managed to hide his bulk behind a table before that point. He was huge. Neck wider than his head, ginger hair cut close to a sunburned scalp. He had a local in a headlock already, the poor sod scrabbling at an arm thicker than his whole body, not a hope in hell of getting out of it. Probably having trouble breathing, going by the purple hue coming onto his face.  
  
_Sod that,_ thought John, with an immediate pang of guilt.   
  
Nothing moved for what seemed like an age, then a figure popped up behind the mountain. It was the moustache - Hudson - looking like his fist was raised against his own mate but instead he grabbed him by the back of his collar, dragging him back until he had to let go the local just to keep his balance.  
  
"What in the hell have I told you?" bellowed the moustache, who had a trickle of blood just starting to make its way out of his nose. "We're on leave, that ain't an excuse for anarchy."  
  
"Didn't stop you none before," retorted the man-mountain, glaring as the local scrabbled away, clutching his throat. "I mean, sir."  
  
"Do as I say, not as I do," replied Hudson, twisting the man's collar. "Now get outside and cool your shit down."  
  
The mountain complied, oddly peacably. Once the door had closed behind him, Camille slammed her way out of the bar and stood in the middle of the room.  
  
"Out," she said, firmly, balancing the cricket bat against her palm. "All of you."  
  
John looked sadly back at his half-finished pint. But it wasn't there any more, only a slick puddle of beer to mark where it had once been. He sighed and scratched the back of his neck, glancing at Camille with an apology in his eyes that he hoped she understood.  
  
"Not you," she said. "You helped. You get free beer now."  
  
  
The place was a lot quieter after all the ruckus. John had a bit of a singing sound in his left ear from where he'd been caught, and his hand was absolutely killing him, a hot pain in his knuckles that was radiating down right through his wrist. He rubbed it, cautiously, and took a swig of beer. Medicinal, ain't it.  
  
Camille edged toward him, her eyes on his hand. "Is it bad?"  
  
"Nah. But I should have learned to punch with the left," he said, showing it to her. "That one's made of titanium."  
  
She smirked and put a bottle of pisswater on the counter.  
  
"Thanks," he said, pushing it back toward her. "I don't."  
  
"Not for you," she said. "For the American. With the..." she paused, then traced a horseshoe over her upper lip and down toward her jaw.  
  
"Oh," he said. "Sure. I'll deliver it to their camp or something. I'm sure they'll let me in."  
  
"Outside," she said, with a brief roll of her eyes. "I'm busy. Take it to him."  
  
He raised his eyebrows. "You're rewarding people for starting fights, now?"  
  
She leaned over the bar, pushing the beer back toward him and looking him deep in the eyes. She really did have lovely eyes. "You didn't see what he did to his friend."  
  
"Oh," said John. "'spose I didn't. And it's moustache, by the way. Think we stole it from your lot."  
  
He hefted himself up and headed out, a few remaining fragments of glass still stuck in the tread of his boots and scraping discomfitingly on the floor.

Outside, the Yanks were in a kind of scattered huddle across the cracked pavement, nursing their wounds and looking pretty sorry for themselves. Hudson was stood smoking a cigar right in the road.  
  
"For you," he said, holding out the beer. "Compliments of the house."  
  
"I don't think I need any more," said Hudson, after puffing on the cigar at some length.  
  
John held it out for a moment longer, then let his arm fall to his side, after a bit of a shrug. "Suit yourself."  
  
"Listen," said Hudson. "Sorry. That you got caught up in this shit. Shouldn't have happened. Not at all."  
  
"Yeah, well," said John. "It does, though, don't it?"  
  
"Yeah," said Hudson, somewhat wistfully. "It does." He sighed, ground out the cigar. "Okay," he continued. "I'll take the beer. I'm gonna regret a lot tomorrow, might as well go all out."  
  
"Alright, mate," said John. He handed over the beer, then raised his hand. "I'd shake hands, but you know."  
  
"Yup," said Hudson, raising his own, the knuckles already starting to darken with bruises. "Well. Adios. If we meet again, let's hope it's under better circumstances."  
  
John grinned. "I bloody hope they are.”

**Author's Note:**

> John/Charmer belongs to me. He’s from East London, he likes football and good beer, and he’s only died once by this point. He exists only here and in one small minific: [7\. Deacon, Sole. "I almost lost you."](http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/150453710495/7-for-deacon-and-sole-hurtcomfort-or-just-plain) More may come.
> 
> Vin/Hudson belongs to theartofblossoming. He’s from Boston, likes bourbon and motorbikes, and ends up as Sentinel-General of a coalition of the Brotherhood and Minutemen. You can read more about him in such fics as [Flashback: Vincent and Vaughn](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9313019/chapters/21107189), [Vincent, Redefined](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheArtOfBlossoming/pseuds/TheArtOfBlossoming/series), and [I’ll Carry You.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11072943)
> 
> NB the location was totally plucked from the top of my head. I just wanted somewhere French-speaking. I have no idea if it has any relevance canon-wise.


End file.
